


Beginnings

by rodabonor



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But admittedly these guys are always a little iffy, Courtesy of Will Graham, Domestic, Drunk Sex, Hannibal is weird about scars, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Passive aggressive literary references, Possessive Hannibal, Still consensual, Tension, What else is new, Will is unstable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9202802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodabonor/pseuds/rodabonor
Summary: A series of fragments detailing the romantic and sexual aspects of Will's and Hannibal's complicated relationship, and the events leading up to them further exploring these parts of themselves and each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so. I wrote this with season 3/post season 3 in mind, and I fully intend to expand on it and write stuff about murder husbands in Europe because that is just about My Fave Thing in the world. But for now, I had to settle for conflicted season 3 feels and trying to bring these angsty lil murder dorks closer together. Oh also this is my first fic on here, I literally have no idea how this works. Enjoy. 
> 
> EDIT: I decided to write stuff on post season 3 in my multichapter fic Spleen et Idéal, making this a 1 chapter fic. Just a heads up!

When Will wakes up these days, he is always _wet_. Face stained with tears, t-shirt soaked in sweat, his cold, shivering body sticking to the damp, tangled sheets. Sometimes, even his boxers are wet, for different reasons which are almost equally embarrassing, but not entirely. At times, he feels like his body is trying to escape him, seeping slowly out of his pores. Other times, it feels like it's trying to drown him. He can never remember his dreams, only its colors; a deep crimson, mingling with the constant black, a soft blue. Blue like the color of Hannibal's eyes, the color of his suits. Red like the wine he used to have him drink. Will always did feel a little silly holding that dainty glass in his hand, constantly trying to correct the way his fingers would grab it by the bulb. Hannibal never hesitated to take the glass by its stem, while Will would make a conscious decision – resulting in just the slightest pause of his hand, betraying his insecurity. He feels that this, in a way, is representative for their relationship as a whole. 

 

*

 

Sometimes it's hard for Will to differentiate between Hannibal and the mental images he associates with him. He thinks of Hannibal, and remembers skin blue to the point where it's almost black; a horned creature wearing the night sky draped across his flesh, gleaming with the wetness of fresh blood pouring from unknown wounds. He sees the sun reflected in a knife's edge, and the velvety roughness of Hannibal's voice rushes to the surface of his mind. He might see, from time to time, a well-dressed man in a three-piece suit, and the scar on his stomach begins to throb. Will has collected a great deal of scars, no doubt, but the one he keeps coming back to is the one on his stomach. When he wakes up from his night terrors, soaked in sweat and tears and God knows what else, achingly hard and straining against his damp boxers, his hand comes to rest at the uneven edges of that scar. 

(Sometimes, his hand will wander toward it while he's touching himself. Sometimes, he will imagine Hannibals hands instead of his own.) 

 

*

 

”Do you know why writers during the 18th century considered the Greeks to be superior to the Romans, in terms of literary work?”

Hannibal had asked Will this question once during one of their dinners, with an almost mocking effortlessness – Will still doesn't really know whether it was some sort of attempt to belittle him or if he genuinely thought that he had any knowledge of 18th century literary views prior to that question. At the time, he decided that it ultimately wasn't very important, and simply shook his head in response.

”Well, they considered the Romans to be polished and cultivated in ways that the Greeks were not. There was a certain rough edge to Homer, they imagined. Something uncivilized, savage, and therefore considerably more authentic.” He pauses, locking eyes with Will. ”At the time, the prevailing belief was that education and cultural refinement mainly served to corrupt the essential goodness of man in his natural state. This was a significant shift in paradigm, since knowledge used to be thought of as a tool of refinement, advancing man from his morally corrupt natural state of ignorance.” 

Will fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt, picking at a loose thread while considering Hannibal's words.

”I don't know about that”, he finally said, quietly, not quite making eye-contact. ”Seems to me, there has always been monsters, regardless of educational or cultural refinement.”

Hannibal smiles, bemused.

”Yes. There seems to be monsters to be found everywhere and anywhere, hiding in plain sight.”

 

*

 

When Will receives a letter from him, it's been almost a year since Hannibal was put behind that thick wall of glass separating him from the outside world. Will thinks, of course, that he shouldn't read it. But, of course, he does. His heart is pounding and his hands are shaking so hard that he has trouble reading the fine handwriting, but when he does it's like everything he has worked so hard to rid himself of comes crashing back. He can almost imagine the quizzical look on Hannibal's face, the hint of smugness twisting his features almost unnoticeably. 

 

*

 

”Will.”

When he enters, Hannibal says his name as if he was expecting him, although he couldn't possibly have. Will rarely visits him at the facility, and he never does so unannounced. It's still strange seeing him imprisoned, locked up inside that small area of space. Trapped. Yet, Will has to admit, he is still as calm and collected as ever. Before he went to see him the first time, he'd conjured up images in his head of Hannibal pacing restlessly, like a tiger confined within a cage too small at the zoo. But he's never given off that sort of energy. No, Will is in fact always surprised to find that not much seems to have changed at all. 

”Dr. Lecter.” He retorts, not really knowing what else to say. Will realizes that he isn't exactly sure why he'd asked to come see him. During their time together, it had simply become second nature for him to seek out Hannibal when he was distressed. And reading his letter, it all seemed to come back; this urge to seek protection in the sanctuary of his presence.

”Is there a reason you have come to see me?” Hannibal looks at Will, inquiring. ”You seem agitated.”

”The same can't be said about you.” Will says in reply, trying to sort out his thoughts. ”I would've thought that Hannibal Lecter would have a hard time adjusting to this way of life.” 

”Who says I'm adjusting? I am simply not inclined to wear my heart on my sleeve, as you do.” 

Hannibal quirks his eyebrow as he says this, almost as if trying to provoke him. Challenge him. Will, in turn, meets his gaze steadily, not backing down. He will not willingly allow the distress he feels to bleed into his face, and he will not allow Hannibal the satisfaction of seeing his hands quiver with repressed distress.

”Well, regardless of why you decided to come,” Hannibal says, bringing him back to the present. ”why don't you tell me how you have been holding up?” 

 

*

 

It's so simple to slip into the familiarity of their conversation, as if things were still the same. Will thinks to himself that it's almost nostalgic, the way they discuss his various thoughts and dreams, not touching on the subjects that might break the spell and bring them back to the present state of chaos. The scratchy sound of Hannibal's voice almost lulls him to sleep as he rests his forehead against the cool glass separating them, heaving a deep sigh. He is so very _tired_ , tired to the point where he feels it in his bones. He allows himself the comfort of imagining Hannibal to be his psychiatrist and friend, as he used to be. As he never really was. A safe pillar of stability in his life. Will had thought that he was. The idea of it makes him want to drop to the floor and just lay there, sleeping – curled up close to that familiar figure, like a dog taking comfort in the closeness of his master. 

His eyes suddenly start welling up with tears that he didn't know he was holding back, and his throat feels so thick and swollen he can barely swallow around it. He's not even sure why, but the burning sensation behind his eyelids is, too, familiar, and it's like slipping into an old, worn out sweater. Closing his eyes, listening to the steady hum of Hannibal's voice, it almost feels like home.

”Will.”

He realizes Hannibal's stopped talking, and when he hears his name being spoken yet again, he swallows hard and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand before looking up. Hannibal makes a disapproving, yet playful clicking noise with his tongue.

” _La sensibilité de chacun, c'est son génie._ ” His lips curve into a soft smile. ”A man's sensitivity is his genius. Baudelaire said never to resent it.”

Will sniffles weakly and nods, voice broken and rather too small than he'd like when he responds:

”Spoken by the same man who claimed melancholy and beauty to be closely intertwined.” 

The older man's smile widens at his reply, and Will catches a glimpse of a glistening row of sharp teeth. His hand automatically travels toward the location of his scar, and he starts rubbing the jagged edges fondly through the fabric of his worn flannel, using even, circular motions. Hannibal's gaze immediately drops, eyes gleaming with something Will at first can't quite place.

”Are you touching the scar I gave you?” He asks, the tone of his voice seemingly unaffected. Will says nothing, knowing Hannibal already knows. ”Does it bring you comfort?”

Will is silent for a moment, trying to decide what angle to explore, which aspects of the truth to enhance and which to alter. The tension between them is gradually intensifying, air heavy with words unspoken.

”It does.” he says, finally, deciding to stick to one of many truths. ”I like feeling it there. Like a physical manifestation of you.”

”You like having me close.”

”I dream about you touching it.” He says, cocking his head slightly to the side and narrowing his eyes. Sizing him up. ”Sometimes, anyway.” 

”In an affectionate manner?” 

Will's mouth twists into a wry smile, more resemblant of a scowl.

”One could say.”

Hannibal nods curtly, understanding the implication.

”I have become a subject of your sexual fantasies, then.” His face is, as per usual, almost impossible to read. ”Opinions differ, of course, but sexual dreams are generally thought to represent something other than mere sexual desire. In fact, some say that people appearing in your dreams – regardless of who they are in real life – represent different aspects of yourself. Keeping this in mind, dreams about sexual encounters may be a symbol for merging contradictory facets of your person.”

”You're saying I'm attempting to find closure, seeking comfort and pleasure in the very hands who hurt me.”

”It's not unlikely.”

”Interesting.” Will says, a slight smirk ghosting across his features. ”I suppose psychological discourse renders it unthinkable that my dreams simply refer to subconscious desires.” He stops. ”I can't help but wonder, though, how _you_ feel about it. I'd have thought you'd enjoy having your impact confirmed, knowing a part of you has made it outside of this room.”

”There's a certain allure to it.” Hannibal's voice drops to a low growl, and the smile tugging at the corner of his lips doesn't quite reach his eyes this time around. ”However, the thought of you taking pleasure in my handiwork isn't altogether unpleasant in itself. Would you show me?”

Will raises his eyebrows, questioningly. 

”My scar?” he says in mild disbelief. ”Show me yours, I'll show you mine.”

”In time, perhaps; I have many.” Hannibal retorts, taking a step closer to Will, his taller stature making him almost loom over him despite the wall of glass separating them. ”You wouldn't deny me the pleasure of viewing the finalization of my work? Not to mention the opportunity to review the competence of the doctors who patched you up.” Although his facial features are arranged in an agreeable mask of professionalism, his eyes are gleaming with just a hint of darkness, a sort of hunger that Will has been oblivious to until now. It makes his stomach churn with nervous excitement. ”Show me.”

After a moment's consideration, Will relents and starts pulling at his shirt, loosely tucked into his jeans. He thinks to himself that it feels oddly private, like he's exposing more than his skin. Hannibal, however, shakes his head disapprovingly and quickly chastises him on his sloppy presentation.

”Unbutton your shirt, don't just pull it up like that.” his facial expression is gentle, yet firm. ”And come closer.”

”For what purpose, Dr. Lecter?”

”Medical purposes, naturally.” He is no longer smiling. ”Closer.” 

Will obeys his command, unbuttoning his shirt and practically pressing his stomach against the chilled surface of the glass. Hannibal's eyes appear almost black, dilated pupils contrasting against the white of his eyes. Will finds himself unable to pull his gaze away.

”Touch it.” Will offers, but it comes across as a demand, and Hannibal stretches out his hand to brush lightly against the glass barrier. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, almost in reverence. Will thinks to himself that he has seen it before, this look of indulgence – he used to see it on Hannibal's face when he was admiring a work of art, or taking the first bite out of one of his prized signature dishes. Hannibal drags a finger across the outline of his scar, slowly and deliberately, until he lets his hand rest flat against the glass. Will realizes that he's been holding his breath, and lets out a shaky gasp as he imagines the warmth of his former psychiatrist's hand on the pale surface of his skin. 

”Exquisite.” The older man says, awe seeping into the roughness of his voice. They look into each other's eyes, not saying another word, because nothing more needs to be said. 

When Will returns home again, he grinds desperately against the bed sheets while touching his scar fervently enough to leave lasting marks; nails digging little red crescent moons into his skin, hands kneading bruises into the pale fields of white.

 

*

 

The night Will was stabbed, he thought for sure that Hannibal was going to kiss him. The warmth of his hand on his face and the stillness and quiet intimacy of their moment made him linger on the thought of Hannibal's mouth pressed against his. Even as agonizing pain washed over him, he wondered whether Hannibal might kiss him or not; his quivering form locked in the other man's tight embrace, both of them inclosed in a microcosmos of their own. But the two of them didn't share their first kiss then. Their first kiss occurs years later, when they're both different people, bruised and battered not only by each other.

 

*

 

”Come on, please.” 

Will murmurs these words to himself, again and again, as he tries to shake Hannibal awake. The bright rays of sunshine making their way over the horizon makes his head throb with a blinding migraine, and his cheek – slashed into a gaping wound by Dolarhyde – sends sharp waves of pain through his body as he attempts CPR. He feels as though his lungs barely have enough air to sustain his own faintly beating heart, still he puts his mouth to his former psychiatrist's cold lips, alternating between blowing air into his limp body and pressing his hands repeatedly against his chest. He feels light-headed with the effort, the barely coagulated wound on his shoulder tearing and starting to bleed yet again as he counts the chest compressions in his head. _Come on, please._

Time passes, and Will is just on the verge of a hysterical fit of panic, thinking it's too late. But then -

Coughing. A muffled groan. Steady streams of fluid pouring out of his swollen mouth, a mixture of water, saliva and blood dripping down his chin. Hannibal's eyes, turning to look at him; sun reflecting in the light blue of his irises.

Will knows, then and there, that he will never be able to do it again. He will never be able to end him, to end them. 

 

*

 

”Why?” Hannibal asks, only once, without specifying. Will knows of course what he is referring to anyway. The two of them are currently renting a cabin in a small village nearby the sea, a situation made possible by a passing stranger with unfortunate timing and a thick wallet that Hannibal made quick business of. Still healing from their wounds, they reside there in solitude, never making any money of their own but always having food on their table and spare change for basic necessities. When Hannibal asks Will this simple question, they're sitting on the couch by the fire together in the cramped living room of their cabin, as they usually do during the evenings.

”Are you afraid I might do it again?” Will says in reply, answering his question with another question. A moment of silence pass between them before Hannibal speaks.

”No, I'm not. Are you?”

Will lifts his head to looks up at his former psychiatrist, regarding his face, contemplating his answer.

”I made a faustian bargain.” He says, a musing tone to his voice. ”Gradually discarding my moral principles to transcend worldly knowledge.”

”Under my influence, yes. You liken me to the devil?”

”I liken _me_ to Faust.” He pauses. ”For those of us who reach above and beyond our place in the world, there can be no peace of mind. Only damnation.”

Hannibal puts his hand on Will's unharmed cheek, stroking the coarse stubble with affectionate tenderness.

”'He who strives on and lives to strive can earn redemption still.'” He says, smiling. ”To quote Goethe's rendition of _Faust_. Ambition isn't always a tragic flaw, Will. Quite the contrary. There is peace to be found for those who carry on; what damns you might also be your salvation.” 

 

*

 

Will starts drinking a lot. At first to dull the pain of his wounds, then to dull the pain of everything else. Hannibal disapproves, he can tell, but he doesn't stop Will from doing it. He merely stocks up their pantry with more bottles of whisky, brands far more expensive than anything Will would have bought for himself. 

 

*

 

When they finally do share their first kiss, Will is the one to initiate it. He thinks, deep down, that it's a natural next step. They have spent the last few weeks wrapped in each other's arms, sleeping in the same bed, never once bringing this constant of their lives up for discussion; as if there was a spell to be broken, a word that might put an end to this small comfort. The night it happens, it's late enough that Hannibal has already gone to bed. Will has stayed up drinking, as usual. When his bottle is empty, he staggers to his feet, starting to make his way to their bedroom. He crashes onto the bed, body limp and head spinning. Hannibal seems to be sleeping soundly, breathing evenly with pale eyelashes fanning over the rise of his cheek bones. Will studies him for a moment, silently resenting him for his serene disposition. Then he nestles in close to the older man, trying to find solace in the warmth of his body.

”You're beginning to display a psychological dependence on alcohol,” Hannibal suddenly mumbles, voice husky from sleep. ”If you're willing to cut back on your whisky, I can help you.”

”Don't... wanna.” Will doesn't care that his speech is slurred as he responds. He turns to face Hannibal, chewing his lip thoughtfully. ”Kiss me,” he murmurs, voice hardly more than a whisper.

The next thing he knows, Hannibal's arms wrap around him, pulling him into a kiss. Will closes his eyes and moans softly as the firm pressure of Hannibal's tongue sliding across his bottom lip makes his mouth fall open, a little slack due to his drunken state. He sinks into the kiss like a hot bath, intertwining their legs and gasping for breath as the kisses grow more feverish, more frenzied, Hannibal's grip tightening around his waist. When the older man pushes him to his back with a low growl rumbling in his chest, he can't help but to whine in a sort of shameless desperation he doesn't recognize in himself. Hannibal hardly even seems to notice, too busy mapping out the geography of his skin, gently caressing the scars he caused and roughly kneading the ones he did not, frowning as if they were love bites left behind by other lovers. 

”Jealous?” Will inquires with a tipsy chuckle, his lips splitting into a coy grin. Hannibal runs his calloused fingers across Will's scalp, grabs the tousled mop of hair at the back of his neck and snaps his head back in return, baring the delicate skin of his throat. Will moans loudly, bucking up slightly against him.

”It is not a laughing matter”, he says sharply, a hard edge to his voice. ”You were supposed to be my canvas, then others sullied you.” 

”You should have claimed me sooner then.” Will says in a quiet whisper, laughing softly yet again. Before he has a chance to say anything else, Hannibal dips down to kiss him once more, tasting his mouth with renewed vigor. When he catches his bottom lip between his teeth, Will briefly fears that pain might replace the pleasurable warmth coiling in his gut. But Hannibal's sharp teeth bite without drawing blood, only leaving the slight throb of bruising behind. All the while, Will trembles beneath his touch, his chest heaving with the rapid beat of his heart – like a rabbit caught between the jaws of a predator. 

 

*

 

When they have sex, they do it facing each other; Will continually refusing to get fucked from behind. It instills in him a deep sense of fear, which he can't really put into words. He feels, too, that it's fundamentally alienating. Despite feeling his lover's firm grip on his hips, he's overwhelmed by a sense of isolation. Despite burrowing his face into the pillow, surrounding himself with Hannibal's scent as he's being filled, he can't shake the consuming sense of loneliness. The first time Hannibal flips him to his stomach, he has a panic attack. The second time, Will gets on his knees himself, thinking he'll be able to handle it. However, as soon as Hannibal pushed inside him, he could feel tears pouring uncontrollably out of his eyes as his body was wracked by violent sobs. After that second time, they decided to settle for having sex face to face. When Hannibal is on top, Will looks at him almost warily, hardly taking his eyes off of him, as if he's something not to be trusted. And when Will's on top, he pins down the other man's arms, the grip of his hands firm enough to bruise. Hannibal can tell that he's hardly even aware that he's doing it.

”I will not hurt you.” he says at one point, accent thicker than usual as the distraction of their sexual intimacy makes him less meticulous. ”You needn't restrict me.”

”I know.” Will says then, lessening his grip slightly, still not letting go.

 

*

 

Despite Will's apparent ambivalence and apprehension, Hannibal soon discovers that he takes great pleasure in receiving oral stimulation – he can't know for sure, but suspects that it might make Will feel powerful, in control. As Hannibal takes him in his mouth, he tries to make himself amiable and submissive, allowing the younger man so deep down his throat that he's almost gagging, swallowing everything he has to offer and cleaning him up afterwards with languid strokes of his tongue. He imagines Will to feel something akin to a lion tamer, controlling a great beast, merely gaining gratification from its treacherous jaws. 

 

*

 

”I cooked. Well, I tried to – nothing fancy, really.”

Will smiles as he takes the steaming pot off the heat, averting his gaze from Hannibal taking off his coat in the hallway. He'd made a childhood favourite while the other man was out: gumbo, inspired by a recipe he vaguely remembers from his grandmother growing up in Louisiana. As Hannibal enters his field of vision, he suddenly feels a slight twinge of embarrassment, knowing his cooking is far from the standard Hannibal is used to. It reminds him of the feeling he used to get when he had dinner with him many years ago, when he'd leave smudged finger prints on the bulb of his wine glasses.

”Very rustic”, the older man says, his voice lacking arrogance or judgement. ”It smells nice.”

When they sit down to eat, Hannibal suggests that they find another place to stay, preferably outside of the United States.

”I think they might be on to us.” He says in a collected tone. ”Besides, circumstances have forced us to be unnecessarily indiscreet. We need to start over.”

”That's a shame.” Will smirks. ”I can tell you were just starting to enjoy this humble way of life.”

”Then you are mistaken. I'd gladly find somewhere else to stay, now that our wounds are healed and the immediate risk is lessened.”

”I suppose I don't even need to ask. We're going to Europe?”

”Yes.”

”Murder husbands running off to Europe. Where did I hear that before?”

Hannibal smiles.

”In another life, my dear Will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now is probably a good time to mention that I'm a teensy bit insecure about my English, since it's not my first language. In case I fucked up at some point you just remember that I'm merely a humble Swede in over my head. Thanks for reading!


End file.
